(Halted around the fire by
night, after moon-set, they sing this beneath the trees.)

What light of
unremembered skies
Hast thou relumed
within our eyes,
Thou whom we seek,
whom we shall find? . . .
A certain odour on
the wind,
Thy hidden face
beyond the west,
These things have
called us; on a quest
Older than any road
we trod,
More endless than
desire. . . .
Far God,
Sigh with thy cruel
voice, that fills
The soul with
longing for dim hills
And faint horizons!
For there come
Grey moments of the
antient dumb
Sickness of travel,
when no song
Can cheer us; but
the way seems long;
And one remembers.
. . .
Ah! the beat
Of weary
unreturning feet,
And songs of
pilgrims unreturning! . . .
The fires we left
are always burning
On the old shrines
of home. Our kin
Have built them
temples, and therein
Pray to the Gods we
know; and dwell
In little houses lovable,
Being happy (we
remember how!)
And peaceful even
to death. . . .
O Thou,
God of all long
desirous roaming,
Our hearts are sick
of fruitless homing,
And crying after
lost desire.
Hearten us onward!
as with fire
Consuming dreams of
other bliss.
The best Thou
givest, giving this
Sufficient
thing---to travel still
Over the plain,
beyond the hill,
Unhesitating
through the shade,
Amid the silence unafraid,
Till, at some
sudden turn, one sees
Against the black
and muttering trees
Thine altar,
wonderfully white,
Among the Forests
of the Night.